


Le Disko

by youcrashstanding



Series: Le Disko Verse [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, F/F, Lady! Loki, PWP, Ridiculous underwear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:19:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcrashstanding/pseuds/youcrashstanding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy Lewis has no sense of shame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Disko

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisiswhatthewatergaveme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswhatthewatergaveme/gifts).



> I know, I know, I should be updating Built Like a Moth... but this came to me while I was running at the gym, and I just had to go with it. It's been forever and a day since I threw together some femme slash, which is kind of funny since I prefer women, but HERE YOU GO, GUYS. HERE YOU FUCKING GO. Blame thisiswhatthewatergaveme, because she's the one that told me to post it.

Darcy Lewis has a belly full of fire and a smile on her painted lips that won't quit. There are stars gleaming in her eyes when she opens them and smiles at the tall Sengalese woman she's been dancing with, all beautiful ebony skin and curves poured into a bright orange dress that fits just right, and in her heels she's taller than Darcy but it's not hard to be taller than Darcy, who rarely finds herself anywhere without her Converse. The music pours over them like honey, thick and rich and sweet and slow, binding, gliding, smooth, and Darcy realizes that as the song ends and another begins the woman's actual girlfriend is there, and she's smiling too, but they're slipping off together, a final impish grin cast in Darcy's direction as they disappear in the press of bodies.

_Damn._

It could be worse, this could be that shitty country-western bar back in New Mexico, and Darcy's only prospects for the evening could be men in work-faded jeans and mustaches that weren't ironic at all, but she's not in New Mexico. She's in New York City and she's surrounded by beautiful, fashionable people and it's fucking awesome, really, and so is her job (holy shit SHIELD is putting up with her, and she's not useless or frivolous, even if she is chaotic and ridiculous) and the night's been a good one, no matter that there's no fresh number in her pocket.

Two more shots of bourbon and everything's pleasantly warm, the press of bodies and the scent of cologne and perfume that cost more than Darcy's wardrobe settles heavy on the back of her tongue and the moment she swallows, there's the distinct feeling of hands on her shoulders, and there's a war in her head, a blitz really, between spinning around and decking whoever is behind her, and leaning into the touch, because it's a  _nice_ touch, a really... she closes her eyes for a second, thinking about it, and when she opens them again there's a ridiculously beautiful woman in front of her, looking  _down_  at her because holy wow she's  _tall,_ this time, and balanced perfectly on stiletto heels, and her eyes- green glass as always and lined perfectly in smoky black, her eyes are full of potential trouble and bad decisions and getting kicked out of bars, probably- yes, Darcy knows that look, that twist of blood red lips, and she appreciates the full view for a moment, the deep purple mini dress clinging to her tight, round ass, her long legs wrapped in what are probably ridiculously expensive thigh high stockings. The dress is one-sleeved, form fitting and ending mid-forearm on her right arm and leaving the left bare; her long fingered hands accented only by a perfect black manicure. Her black bob is styled so sharp it cut, and it frames perfect high cheek bones and a wicked pout.

Darcy laughs, laughs and laughs and there's a good chance the people around her don't even hear her over the frantic beat of the music, and she's guiding the gorgeous creature in front of her back to the dance floor.

"You are  _shameless_!" Darcy calls above the music, and all she gets in reply is a wicked, high laugh, edge so fine it makes it through the bass and gives Darcy a delicious thrill. She licks her lips- they match, almost, her shade's a little lighter, but Darcy can fucking rock red lipstick and she knows it, even if she isn't tottering around at a foot taller than she should be, even in her skinny jeans and  _even if_  she is wearing an artfully torn-and-tied Hulk shirt she found in the boy's section of a department store and more bracelets than is probably necessary, but they (and her awesome fucking black rimmed glasses) complete her look so who gives a shit.

"I've been told as much," comes the answer, and oh, that accent stays no matter what form she chooses, and Darcy adores it, and leans in and tells her so.

"I know." Lips brush Darcy's ear and she feels giddy all over again, her hands find those narrow hips and pull them against her, and despite the height difference they fit together, and they flow, and for not the first time Darcy wonders where the hell an ancient Norse god learned how to grind like a stripper and decides, since she's seven drinks in, to ask.

"God. Of. Chaos," comes the answer, and bonus is a flick of tongue along the shell of Darcy's ear as Loki leans down to purr out her answer, "I am nearly required by title to dance well, don't you think?"

"I can see you causing a lot of shit with those hips," Darcy agrees with a leer and an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle as she arcs into Loki. "Bet they don't have heels like that, though, back in Asgard."

"A shame, isn't it?" 

"Might be better for everyone that they don't," Darcy purrs, "I mean, just imagine the shit that would go down, watching you _leave_."

That earns her another laugh; light, long fingers trail down her spine, rest on the curve of her ass, slide forward, thumbs press against her hips as she rolls with the beat, as their feet glide them along, quick and smooth and  _better_  than everyone around them, and men take notice, women, too, but a look at Loki's face and none of them say a word, and there are no hands that find themselves where they shouldn't be.

Good on them, Darcy thinks, because she's pretty sure Loki would break fingers and kneecaps if someone got fresh without her express approval.

Darcy likes that. 

It goes well with her own penchant for tasers and stomping on feet.

 

She's aware, of course, as she's pressed against a column in the center of the dance floor, Loki grinding against her like she'd sink into her, through her, and maybe climb the column after, that she's dancing with a war criminal, and that Jane would be really, really disappointed. And Thor, the big lug, he'd probably give her Golden Retriever eyes and maybe even a single tear or a  _why wouldn't you tell me you have been seeing (_ fucking)  _my brother?_  And then, of course, there's Steve, who has a sad face like a crying eagle... and Darcy knows she'd probably feel bad then, like every other time she's done something impulsive, irresponsible, and stupid.

But it hasn't happened  _yet_. So she reaches behind her and grips the rough concrete and with a wicked grin lifts up and wraps her legs around Loki's hips, bringing the other woman in close, her purple Converse resting against the top of Loki's ass. Darcy was a natural at monkey bars as a child, and she's found that her awesome skills have come in handy as an adult, especially in situations like these.

It earns her a growl and a mouth at her throat as Loki melts around her, the sharp bite of teeth above her pulse making her cry out, roll her hips and flutter her eyes closed. There's a whistle from somewhere nearby and Darcy offers a middle finger right as Loki claims her mouth; their tongues meet and it's spice and cool, electric  _power_  and it spreads, washes over her and Darcy nips Loki's lower lip. The other woman purrs back, and it's maddeningly sexy. Darcy opens her eyes and there is that cat green gaze again, and it's like there's storm brewing in those endless eyes, a monsoon, even, only just held back, and Darcy is sliding down the column, wobbly on her feet as she unwraps from Loki and anchors a hand around the god's thin wrist, dragging her through the dance floor, up the spiraling staircase to the bathrooms and the various little alcoves above the dance floor. Before they get there they are laughing and staggering against a wall plastered in band posters and strange photographs that pass as hipster art, Loki's heels making hard staccato clicks as she maneuvers Darcy towards the door.

"Bossy," Darcy chides, "This was  _my_  idea,"

"And you're weaving about like a drunken fool," Loki replies, "One of us has to navigate."

"I... yes, yes I _am_  a drunken fool," Darcy agrees, "And said drunken fool is gonna fuck you in that bathroom,"

"Oh, heavens. I feel  _thoroughly_  debauched already," Loki remarks, adjusting her criminally tight skirt.

"Yes, yes, you should, because I am a  _BEAST_ ," Darcy nods, "BITCHES, OUT." She kicks in the door, and no less than four women flutter out, hissing curses at Darcy and snapping insults as they scrub cocaine from beneath their nostrils and adjust bra straps and hair and skirts. "AWAY WITH THEE!" Darcy hoots as they clamor down the stairs, offering middle fingers and  _what the fuck is your problem, bitch_  and  _fucking dyke_  and Darcy doesn't give a single shit at all because the grimy little bathroom is theirs for the moment and she laughs and throws her hands up in victory. Loki loops an arm around her waist and  _carries_  her in, and she gives a squawk of surprise when she's swept off her feet.

"The laws of physics state you can't do this in those heels."

"I laugh at your physics. Daily."

"So I see," Darcy cocks her head to one side and squirms out of Loki's arms only to plaster herself against her, claiming her mouth and sliding a hand between the taller woman's legs. 

"Oh my GOD,"

" _Yes_?"

"You are such a  _slut_ ," Darcy chirps, "You panty-less trollop. Oh, I'm scandalized."

"Says the woman with her fingers in..."

"Yes, there's that," Darcy agrees, "Also this, wait for it."

She drops to her knees, rolling her eyes up and grinning like a child who's just gotten caught trying to make a cake all by themselves in the kitchen, with batter on the ceiling to prove it. 

Loki tastes like heaven; this is something Darcy knows, had discovered a little while ago, and that night had involved a lot of alcohol too and there'd been a big fucking SHOCK when she realized the curvy little thing she was fingering was Thor's  _brother_ , but every time it's still  _awesome_ , and a little weird, maybe, in a sexy way, because she's also just a little  _cooler_  than a person should be. 

But Darcy doesn't point that out, because Darcy has a little bit of tact and this ridiculous affair isn't about confronting deep issues like adoptions and centuries-old deceits and blood feuds and all of the shit Thor's told her on long, drunken nights when he's waxing sentimental about his crazy little shapeshifting brother. It's about fucking.

Because Loki is hot.

And really, who wouldn't fuck a shape-shifting god, if they had the chance?

Loki is moaning, high and long and loud, one hand wrapped in Darcy's hair, the other digging furrows in the door behind her, and it only makes it that much sexier. Darcy slides a finger, and then another, another, inside the other woman as she works, her tongue doing slow, deliberate strokes across Loki's clit, writing nonsense poetry, guiding Loki up and up to the shimmering edge. She slides her free hand down Loki's stocking-clad thigh, delighting in the silken feel of it beneath her fingers.

When Loki's orgasm crashes through her, it's  _beautiful;_ a howl of abandon echoes through the little room, her hips shaking, her voice ragged and open and hot as she's moaning out a litany of dirty, filthy things, and Darcy's damn near dripping through her pants by the time Loki has her on the sink counter against the mirror.  They kiss, hot and hard, a battle of who's drinking who down deep, and Darcy can feel it in her marrow, that humming throb of power that always comes in waves after Loki's first orgasm and doesn't end until she's finished and  _gone_  and it's driving Darcy crazy; she's wriggling out of her jeans, squirming about to not fall ass first into the sink (which would be ridiculous even for her, the girl who has gotten her foot stuck in a toilet in a tryst in high school, and who fell out of a hammock whilst trying to seduce a cute hippie in college) and Loki gives an impatient hiss and flicks a knife from no where (and if Darcy wasn't Darcy that would be terrifying), slicing through the fabric and leaving them piled in the sink. Darcy blinked up at her from behind her glasses, sitting there in her Hulk T-Shirt and Iron Man underwear. "Shit just got  _real_ ," she muses, and suddenly Loki erupts into laughter, curling over Darcy, hands gripping the counter.

"By the gods, Darcy Lewis, those underwear, you..."

"You _like_  it," Darcy replies, wriggling again. "You think I'm sexy. I'm  _nerdy sexy._ And I'm making a moral stand, here. Just because I'm fucking you, sometimes, my ass... well, my  _heart_  is still loyal to the Avengers. Can't change _that_ , even if my loins are weak. _"_

"You are the most ridiculous human being I have ever encountered." 

"Ridiculously good at making you orgasm," Darcy replies, flashing a v and licking between it lewdly and Loki laughs again, before deftly pulling the underwear in question off of Darcy and leaving her bareassed on the counter, still wearing her shoes.

"It's not as hot as heels, but it'll do, eh?" Darcy asks, giving her best come-hither stare, and offering a theatrical pout. 

Loki rolls her eyes and kisses her, wrapping hands in her hair, and Darcy forgets to be difficult again and is instead wrapping her legs around Loki again, pulling her in, and more than delighted that that tight little skirt is riding up so they are pressed together as Loki plunders her mouth; her cool fingers slide down to cradle Darcy's face in her hands, and Darcy feels her heart skip a beat; she fights it down stubbornly and breaks the kiss, giving Loki a desperate, needy look, and the god is dropping to her knees, pulling Darcy closer, pressing teasing kisses to Darcy's smooth, milky thighs, before giving the girl one long, slow, teasing stroke at her core, and another, all soft, soft tongue and a whisper of that thrilling cool energy and Darcy whimpers, biting her lip and letting her eyes fall closed as Loki explores her, slow and deliberate and with all the expert skill of someone who's probably been giving head for several centuries.

The thought makes Darcy giggle, and presses a hand to her mouth to keep it from becoming totally inappropriate laughter; it only takes a few seconds and Loki's tongue slipping inside her as the god lifts her for a better angle to make her forget her ridiculous shit and focus on the near-unbearable pleasure that's building inside her, glowing like embers and spreading warmth through her with every lick and suck and stroke, and Darcy's not as good with dirty talk as Loki, but she says it anyway, her voice rough and tight with need. 

"Oh my fuck, yes," she hisses, "More, more, JESUS that's good, you have the hottest goddamn mouth I have ever..." And it's then, then, when the tension breaks, and the flood comes spilling through, washing away all coherence and Darcy doesn't even care that she bangs her head on the mirror behind her as she comes, crying out and digging nails into Loki's shoulders, drawing blood; Loki gives a ragged moan and leans into it, because the filthy bitch gets off on pain and it's a thing Darcy REALLY wants to explore a little better when they're in the right place (Thoughts of Loki in latex, maybe, in a collar, seeing how many buttons she can push and if she can find an edge somewhere in all that godly power, if she could maybe make this terrible sinful creature beg a little...)  and Darcy is pulling her up, up into her, kissing her again, and she tastes sex and whiskey and magic and copper and it makes her head swim, makes her moan into Loki's mouth, and she's trembling, feeling like she's going to shake apart because Loki is riding her orgasm out with delicate slow strokes, just under too much, and it's almost painful, almost unbearable, and Darcy is whimpering like a puppy beneath Loki, letting the pleasure build again,   damn near humping the god's perfectly manicured hand as she wrings another orgasm out of her. 

"I GIVE, I GIVE," Darcy groans, flopping back against the mirror again, "You're gonna have to carry me out of here if you do me again,"

"I don't mind," Loki remarks with a shrug, slowly licking her fingers clean with a look that might be feigned innocence.

"I do," Darcy replies, "Woooo goddamn." She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes and lets out a long breath. "My brain went liquid,"

"You're welcome,"

"Yes, that."

"Of course. I'm very good at what I do."

"I know, it's why my vagina has such a crush on you," Darcy replies, and she gets another eye roll in response as Loki adjusts her skirt and leans to check her hair and make up in the mirror around Darcy's head.

"The most ridiculous human," Loki repeats crisply.

"See you around?" Darcy asks, because this is where they always part; they never leave a club together and they've never even had a drink after a round of sex. Loki just does her creepy god thing and isn't there anymore, and Darcy doesn't take it personal because absolutely nothing they're doing is personal, anyway. It's just fun. Immoral, dirty, make-the-baby-Jesus-cry fun, and Darcy's  _okay_  with that.

"Perhaps."

"Please. You say that every time. Don't lie, booty calls are imminent with you, ya dirty slut."

"I believe the phrase you're looking for involves 'pot' 'kettle' and 'black', Ms. Lewis," Loki replies, turning to slink towards the door, pausing only to adjust her stockings. 

"Touche, oh possessor of the legs that go on for days. Ooof." She watches Loki as the woman opens the door, and adds, as she hops to the floor, proud in her underwear and purple high-tops,  "I swear, one of these days, we're doing this at my place, I've GOT to introduce you to the Earth sexy-times tradition of strap-ons..."

"And which gender would you prefer for this planned violation, Ms. Lewis?" Loki asks over her shoulder, giving an arched eyebrow but not turning; that would be construed as too much interest, Darcy knows- and Loki's never going to act  _too_ interested after.

"Both of em!" Darcy crows.  "All kinds of fucking with all kinds of things. Good times, good times- save the date _, we're gonna turn this shit to eleven."_

"A date it is, then. I will see you... around."

 

And Darcy is staring into empty space then, arms crossed. She cocks her head and gives herself a once over in the mirror before she stoops to pick up her torn jeans. They're ruined, and totally unwearable, so she shrugs and tosses them over her shoulder like a prize and marches down the stairs to the club's exit, giving more than a few fist bumps as she makes her way to the exit, unable to keep a stupid grin off of her face.

Loki'd said  _date._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> *throws glitter* and I even dedicated it to you, because it's your FAULT.


End file.
